


Delirium

by Angel-without-wings-sew (John_lockian), John_lockian



Series: Delirium [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fever Dreams, Fluff, Gen, HiatuStory May Challenge, M/M, Post season 4 - But NOT compliant, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Sick John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10906734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_lockian/pseuds/Angel-without-wings-sew, https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_lockian/pseuds/John_lockian
Summary: John succumbs to illness and Sherlock is left to tend to his needs. In the grasps of fever, hidden truths are revealed.





	Delirium

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written to fulfil the prompt for the @hiatustory, May challenge - 'Bed Sharing'.  
> This is my very first piece of writing and I want to give thanks to @the_hopeless_existentialist for Beta'ing my work.  
> Thank you, thank you, thank you.... All remaining errors are mine and mine alone.

** Delirium **

 

Life had been good at Baker street since John had come back home. 

 

The time Sherlock had spent after ‘the fall’, had made been made bearable only by the fact that John was safe.  That even though John believed him dead, Sherlock was keeping him safe.  In the darkest moments, when each breath felt like an inhalation of glass splinters, the sunlight soothed him when he imagined John’s face.  He, Sherlock Holmes, detached, cold and untouchable, allowed himself to feel.  He allowed the butterflies in his stomach, to unfurl their wings when thinking of John’s eyes, allowed them to flutter lightly, over the pain of the red hot searing flesh, flesh that had been beaten and broken by his captors.

He drank in the memories of John’s laugh, oh! His laugh, that light childish giggle. He allowed it to quench the thirst left by days of miniscule sips of foul water, given just to extend his suffering.  As his captors drew close, shouting and cursing into his face, he let his memories roam back to the moments when John had leaned over his shoulder, cheek almost touching his, light breaths rippling on his smooth skin, as John, looking at his laptop, murmured agreement or ‘usually not’ at a comment he was trying to enforce. 

It was this, his love and affection for his dearest friend that got him through his ordeal. When Mycroft had finally manged to secure his release, saving him from that hell hole, it was John he dreamed about in the nights following.  And when he had got home, the devastation he had felt when he had discovered that John had moved out of Baker Street, moved in with ‘that woman’, had been lessened by the knowledge that John, ‘his John’ was safe.

When the shit hit the fan, when Mary was killed and John had hit rock bottom, he had been there for him. His own heart was breaking, not because of the loss of ‘her’ but because John was struggling. John was grieving.  John was in pain, therefore so was he. To the outside world, he, Sherlock Holmes was cold, aloof, uncaring, and he didn’t give a damn how they saw him. He knew that his heart, in fact his whole universe was dedicated to loving the man, he would never be able to call his, but who he could look after and cherish, if only from afar.

But things _had_ got better. John had moved back in. “To be nearer the action Sherlock”, “To save on rent, Sherlock” – whatever the reasons, Sherlock just cared that John had come home, _to him._ Even when John trudged upstairs to bed alone, weary after a night out, John was home, close by. Sherlock could breathe easier, just knowing that he was there.

Of course, there were good times. Fleeting touches as they passed each other, the fits of giggles that accompanied the hit of adrenalin a solved case brought forth. The occasional meal out, where they stuttered over any embarrassing silences. They slowly fell back into cosy domesticity. Sherlock loved the closeness and peace his best friend brought to Baker Street.

 

And now this! John had been pulling all-day shifts at the surgery since the flu outbreak had started, people dropping like flies. Someone, somewhere was having their arse kicked no doubt, the flu vaccine that had been administered was spectacularly ineffective against this particular strain, leaving people vulnerable. Even though it was fairly short lasting, it had been wreaking havoc across towns and cities in the UK. Accident and Emergency units were full to bursting. 

When John had come home from the surgery last night, Sherlock knew he was ill. His white face was drawn and gaunt. Not enough food and water breaks along with lengthy hours left him little reserve to fight the virus which was now taking its toll. The advice given out by the Department of Health was to stay home if symptomatic, to not visit the doctor or go to hospital unless acutely ill. The hospitals had no room. People had been instructed to maintain hydration at all costs. Treat fever with paracetamol.  But that was all. John would stay home, and Sherlock would take care of him.

The virus hit John’s body like a train running on full steam and out of control. Within hours, John was febrile and delirious.  Sherlock had eased him in to his own double bed, much easier to tend to him with the kitchen and bathroom so near.  He had dragged his arm chair next to the bed so he could stay close at all times. And each and every half hour through that first night, Sherlock had pressed cool water to his lips, ensuring that John was taking regular sips, administered paracetamol and mopped John’s burning body with cool damp towels.

In the early light of the next day, Sherlock roused from his half sleep to hear John mumbling.  He sat up straight to catch what John was asking for, but then realised that delirium had John in its grasp and that the words were nonsensical, a babble of disjointed syllables and sounds – at first.

Sherlock pressed more water to John’s lips, and then went to the bathroom, returning with a cool damp flannel, wiping across John’s fevered face.  John was wearing only his boxers, and a thin sheet, an attempt to help control his surging fever. Sherlock tried to avert his gaze from John’s body as he tended lovingly to his needs. He realised now, as he wiped John’s brow, that John was really stunningly beautiful. His gorgeous eyes, that opened intermittently, were unfocussed in delirium but still lovely. He took in the strong line of John’s jaw, the juncture where it met his neck, before his gaze moved down to John’s chest. The beads of sweat from the fever, caught in the hair there, glistening like dew drops in the early morning sun. The ragged breaths, the rise and fall of his chest caused Sherlock to inhale sharply as his love surged forward before he was able to capture it and push it back in again. He forced himself to look away, wouldn’t allow himself to look further. It felt like a breach of privacy, after all John was not really ‘here’. Sherlock had no right to steal personal looks and was sure that John would be mortified if he found out that Sherlock had looked at him like that, examining closely each and every curve, each muscle, sinew, tendon, every inch of skin.  

 

“Do it again”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to John’s face. 

“Yes, like that that, it feels nice.” The words, now as clear as day, reverberated around the room, but as Sherlock lent forward to look at Johns face, he realised that whilst John appeared to be awake, he was definitely still delirious.

“Shh, John, relax, you are not well and you need to get better, just sleep.” Sherlock spoke calmly and clearly even though John’s words had made him shiver slightly. What was he dreaming about? Who was he imagining? Was it that red-headed cat loving vegan? The short, dainty nurse who had draped herself over him every time they were together?

“Please hold me, come closer,” John said to him, eyes locked on his but seemingly unseeing, glazed by fever. “I’m cold! Please--” John’s shaky voice almost pleaded.

“John, it’s ok. You feel cold because you have a fever, your hypothalamus is sending messages out to your body that you are cold, that’s why you are shivering. You are in fact, really hot, and you will feel better when your fever breaks.”

“Did, you just call me hot?” John giggled, that beautiful silver giggle that sparkled in Sherlock’s heart. Sherlock blushed, even though he knew that John couldn’t be talking to him, would be talking to one of the dull, moronic idiots who fancied themselves as the next doctor’s wife.

Sherlock smiled guiltily, playing along.

 “Well, you are hot John, very hot.” Sherlock wondered if he imagined that John’s fevered, flushed face had blushed, a pink tinge reaching the tips of his perfect ears.

“I love it when we sleep like this, you make me feel so safe, the way you press your back into my chest, the way your hair tickles my neck. I love your curls” John continued.

Sherlock almost choked. Curls? Curls? Who was it John was draped around in his mind? He felt a stab of jealousy. Sherlock cast his mind back over John’s recent and not so recent conquests. Hmmm, not one of them had even slightly wavy hair, never mind curls.

“I love it when we entwine our feet like this, my ankles against your ankles, my thighs against your thighs,” John murmured. It was obvious that John was re-enacting in his mind, a personal moment of tenderness between him and a past lover.

Sherlock watched mesmerised as he saw John stretching out his legs, moving as though he indeed was wrapped around another person. John reached out his right arm arcing it slightly through mid-air, and resting it lightly on the bed in front of him as though he was resting it gently along his lover’s waist.

“Mmm, you feel so good. I love your smooth skin. You are so gentle but so strong, a contradiction.”  John’s breathing had become a little more rapid as he spoke to his bed partner.

Sherlock felt a mixture of surprise, shock and also a little sadness as he saw John play acting the love scene in front of him. A scene he would never get to share. Should he leave the room?  Looking over at John, his hot sweaty skin gleamed in the streaks of daylight that were now pouring through the curtains, Sherlock sighed.

“Mmm, I love your hands, so beautiful, so delicate.” John raised his own hands close to his face, as though examining them. His fingers flexing as though entwined around another’s.  Then Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat as he saw John’s mouth delicately kiss that invisible hand.  John’s body curved, his right arm pulling his ‘lover’ close, his knees bending to get even closer. John murmured satisfaction, as he spooned his bed buddy.  Sherlock’s heart ached at the tender scene unfolding in front of him. He wished he could see what John was seeing at that moment, with all his attention on his unseen partner. 

“I wanted this for so long, wanted to hold you in my arms, wanted to feel your skin next to mine – I love you so much, Sherlock.”

Sherlock froze, shock ripping through him. What? John was imagining him? John loved… him? Sherlock frantically cast his mind back over the last few weeks; the times where John has smiled nervously when Sherlock had glanced over and saw him watching, the way that John had lent in close when looking at Sherlock’s laptop over his shoulder, the brush of a hand over back as he passed Sherlock.

It sort of made sense… in a mad way.  Of course!  He relaxed, then smiled. He leaned down, smoothing the hair from Johns faced, rubbing his thumb across John’s jaw. John leaned into his touch, “I love you too, John.”

 

Sherlock knew that John might not remember the day he ‘spent in bed ‘ with Sherlock,  would undoubtedly forget the words he had spoken once he had recovered, but he knew deep in his heart that the words spoken by John were true.  The delirium had removed all trace of awkward embarrassment. Yes, they would be revisiting this topic very soon, as soon as John was well, and in full control of his faculties. He pressed more water to John’s lips before kissing his forehead and taking up sentry in his armchair, ready to tend to John’s every need.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive feedback always welcome, but be gentle with me.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr as angel-without-wings-sew.


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